I believe in rock because it whispers. It tells the story of a great man, on his horse, who welcomed the intruders who wanted to steal his father's rich land. He shouted his bitter defiance in loud chorus of the blasting guns and roaring cannons. He fell down with a bullet in his brain and freedom in his hands. The rock keeps the countenances of heroes. The rock keeps the grief and embarrassments of heroes' foes. The rock has history in it, written in indelible texts. The rock has lasting and vivid memories. God tamed Israel by carving His burning voice on rocks. The rock speaks. The rock is witness to the glory of Rome, of Greece, of Babylon. The rock speaks of the past of Spain, of Portugal, of Britain. The rock is the heart that pulsates with the longings of pharaohs, of Incas, of Astecs. The rock is patient: it waits. The rock waits for noble hands to reveal the truth it conceals. I believe in the rock because it is the mirror of the human mind.